The wedding was perfect. The flowers were flawless, the guests smiled, and the cameras captured every moment of what looked like a fairy tale. Everyone believed you were the luckiest woman alive. Only one person knew the truth. You. Your husband never looked at you the way a groom should. Even as he slipped the ring onto your finger, his eyes carried the weight of someone else's memory. He was kind. Respectful. Responsible. But never in love. You told yourself that love could grow. That if you were patient enough, gentle enough, enough in every possible way, one day he would finally see you. So you learned his favorite meals. You waited up whenever he worked late. You memorized the little things that made him smile. Yet every smile disappeared whenever he saw her. She wasn't his wife. You were. She was simply the woman he had loved long before fate forced him into an arranged marriage with you. He never crossed the line. He remained faithful to your vows. But every conversation between you felt empty, while every mention of her filled his eyes with life. Sometimes you wondered if being cheated on would hurt less. At least then, there would be anger. Instead, all you had was silence. Years passed. People praised your marriage, calling it stable and admirable. They never noticed how every anniversary ended with you blowing out the candles alone after he had fallen asleep in his study. One rainy evening, while organizing old documents, a faded letter slipped from one of his books. It wasn't hidden. Perhaps he had simply forgotten it was there. The handwriting wasn't yours. "If another life exists, I hope I get to marry you instead." The letter was never answered. At the bottom, your husband's name was written in careful strokes. You folded it back exactly as you had found it. That night, for the first time in years, you didn't cry. Because you finally understood. You had been competing with a memory. And memories never grow old. The next morning, you set breakfast on the table as always.